Page 7 of The Wrong Groom

I’m about to refuse, but today is already so hellish. I might as well have something nice to soothe my nerves. “Do you have herbal iced tea?” I ask politely.

She smiles. “We have everything. Anything else I can get you?”

“A dash of vanilla in it would be lovely,” I say gratefully. That’s my favorite drink—herbal tea with vanilla. With any luck, it’ll soothe my nerves.

The assistant turns to face Gabriel and his mother. “And for either of you?”

“A tonic water for me,” Camille says. “Gabriel?”

He doesn’t respond, merely shakes his head. He stares at me, his steely gaze fixed.

This time, I manage to look away, to pull my focus from his face. My heart is in my throat, though, my pulse racing. This is going to be a difficult three years if I can’t even look him in the eye.

While Gabriel gets changed and touched up by the stylists, I sip on the cold herbal tea. The faint sweetness lingers on my tongue, but it does little to ease the tension winding through my body. I watch the stylists fuss over Gabriel as he stands still, his expression unreadable.

I try to distract myself by focusing on the scenery, the rhythmic roll of the ocean and the crash of waves against the shore. But every time I glance back, I find myself hyper-aware of his every move, his quiet, commanding presence.

Finally, the photographer claps his hands to draw our attention. “Okay! Let’s get this show on the road, shall we? We’re going to do some photos by our archway, then head over to the cliffs to get some natural shots.”

Swallowing, I move obediently toward the archway. The sand shifts beneath my feet with each step, making me feel unsteady. As I approach, the photographer gestures for Gabriel to join me.

And suddenly, I find myself face-to-face with him, pressed closer than we’ve ever been before.

“Hello,” he says stiffly.

“Hi,” I respond. I’m not sure what else to say, but the silence that hangs between us is so tense, so unnatural, that I feel the need to fill it. I clear my throat, doing my best to keep my voice clear and cool, trying to hide the embarrassing stutter that I’ve struggled with since I was a child. “Th-thanks for doing this. You probably had better things to do with your d-day than a photoshoot.”

His head tips to one side slightly, his lips pursed. It’s a strange expression, one I can’t interpret. “Oh. I’m sure you had better things to do than this.”

I open my mouth, then close it again, like a fish out of water. Before I can come up with a reply, the photographer’s hands are on my arms.

“Move closer together,” he says, pushing me toward Gabriel. “That’s it. Pretend you like each other.”

He thinks it’s a joke, but I don’t. Nothing about this situation is funny. I oblige, taking a step toward Gabriel, who goes as still as a startled animal.

“Could you touch her?” the photographer asks him. “Get some sort of contact for this first photo?”

Gabriel glances down at me, concern evident on his face. “Is it okay if I…”

I raise an eyebrow, surprised. We’re getting married, for fuck’s sake, and he’s still asking permission to touch me. I swallow hard, then nod.

He wraps an arm around my waist, one of his large hands settling at the small of my back. As he does so, a wave of his scent washes over me. He smells like smoky cedar, sandalwood, and a hint of something sharp and clean—citrus, I think.

Different from any other man I’ve been this close to, for sure. Both his touch and his scent are unexpected, surprisingly soft and lingering, wrapping around me in a way that feels… almost intimate. My breath catches for a moment, and I fight the urge to lean in, drawn to the warmth of him.

Gabriel’s touch is warm, but there’s a tension there, a restraint in the way his hand rests on my back. His grip is firm, secure, but it feels like he’s holding back, unsure of where the line is drawn. The contrast between his imposing presence and this careful touch is almost disarming. His thumb brushes against my spine, so subtly that I wonder if he even realizes he’s done it.

The snap-snap of the camera jolts me out of my trance.

“Perfect,” the photographer says. “Just like that. Keep looking at each other.”

Snap-snap. I gaze up at him. He’s so tall, at least a foot taller than me. I stopped growing at five-foot-two. He towers over me, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that seems to envelop us both.

Snap-snap.

“Okay, let’s get another pose,” the photographer directs, checking his camera screen without looking up at us. “How about this—Gabriel, why don’t you take her hand and walk toward the camera? Nice and natural, like you’re heading somewhere together.”

Gabriel’s hand slides from my waist, and for a moment, the absence of his warmth makes me feel oddly exposed. Then he reaches down, his fingers brushing against mine before wrapping around my hand. His grip is firm, yet somehow careful, like he’s afraid of holding too tightly.